


Someday, somewhere

by FuriousPoplar



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (just a bit), Angst, Character Study, Dogs, Fluff, Gen, Hope, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Reader Is Chara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:04:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8313331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuriousPoplar/pseuds/FuriousPoplar
Summary: There's somewhere out there for you. Somewhere you can live, not just survive. Somewhere you can be happy. One day, you're going to find it. That's a promise.





	

                You’re in the part of town that disgusts you.

Although, in all fairness, that’s a meaningless statement. All parts of every town disgust you, but most of them you hate on principle, not because they’re grimy and smell like death and decay (You figure that there’s _got_ to be a body decomposing rotting away around here somewhere).

But you’re more than happy to put up with the stench and scenery and the tall, tall people with hands stuffed into their pockets shooting you dirty looks as you pass, hating you automatically, as they should. This and every other part of town is absolutely delightful compared to your house. And, despite everything all the denizens have done to stamp out every last trace of joy and hope around as though they were cockroaches, unwelcome little pockets of filth and disease, there is some beauty yet to be found. The easy to climb buildings that let you sit on the roof and gaze up at the sky after dark. The odd ladybug or honeybee on the run. The golden flowers near your house. All things that provide an emotional getaway, giving you a fleeting taste of something better, of something that isn’t just helpless fear or bitter, bitter hate.

And so, you came to the grimy part of town. You aren’t here too often, but you figure that if you’re going to find some kind of respite, you’d be best off searching where you haven’t before. You’re not sure what you’re looking for, exactly— you never are. You feel as though, today, even just a lone, brave dandelion poking through a crack in the sidewalk would be enough.

What you definitely aren’t expecting is to strike it rich. A few more steps and you would have missed it, but you were lucky enough to glance down the narrow alleyway behind what you’re going to assume is a grocery store. There’s a dumpster there, not too filthy looking, that was left wide open. There’s even a brand-name bag of chisps hanging over the lip, taunting you, tempting you to come over and rummage around inside. Your stomach makes some kind of angry noise at the thought. It’s clearly pissed that you haven’t been meeting its demands. You haven’t eaten in well over three days, and if you go any longer it’s going to start hurting too much to ignore. You practically sprint over and scramble up to the lip, trying to get a better view inside. Most of it is just sauces and condiments and stuff that you won’t touch unless you’re about to die (you aren’t there yet, but you’ll probably have to come back some other day). However, without much digging, you manage to find a pre-made sandwich in a bundle of saran wrap. Oh, and it’s a big one, too— it’s one of those subs the size of your head! The bread has molded in a few spots, but that doesn’t matter. You can pick those off.

You sit cross-legged with your back against the brick wall opposite your little treasure-trove and rip your way through the plastic wrap, hooking your fingers through and stretching it until it splits open. Smells like something you probably shouldn’t put in your mouth. You take a bite, and— well, it’s disgusting. There’s a good reason why it was thrown out. It’s chewy, slimy, it leaves a horrible, putrid aftertaste, and you think there may be a bug writhing around in it, somewhere, but as far as dumpster food goes, it’s one of your better finds. It’s not as bad as the ravioli. Nothing will ever be as bad as the ravioli.

You start to hear a low growling noise, getting louder and louder, and you roll your eyes. Stupid body. You heard it the first time. You’re feeding it, aren’t you? You’re taking care of it. Can’t it shut up for _five minutes_ and let you enjoy a goddamn meal? Irritated, you eat slightly faster. If there’s anything you’ve learned, it’s that there is simply no compromising with that needy sack of acid tucked under your ribcage.

Then you realize that the noise is coming from the right, not from you. You freeze, rubbery lettuce dangling off your lip, and turn your head to look.

Approaching you, very slowly, is a dog.

He’s a larger dog. Or rather, a larger _framed_ dog. This one in particular doesn’t look so healthy; if it weren’t for his thick fur, you could probably count every last one of his ribs. His coat is a gradient, with black on top fading out into grey and ending up as a snowy white by the time it reaches his paws. You can see a bushy tail tucked between his back legs. There’s a chain dug deep into fur of his neck. He is staring, very deliberately, at your sandwich. Your sandwich. _YOURS_. You glare murderously and start growling back before you realize how stupid you are, sizing up a stray. He’s probably starving to death, desperate, and fully capable of tearing your throat out. Forget the sandwich— he’s going to eat _you_.

He draws closer. You panic. Without thinking your plan through, you break a chunk off the sandwich and huck it at him in a bid to defend yourself. It splats ungracefully against the pavement a grand three feet away from you, and you mutter something nasty under your breath. You’d make quite the pitcher, wouldn’t you?

The dog stops growling and cocks his head, looking perplexed. He creeps over to where the piece landed, painfully slow and cautious, watching you keenly the whole time. You almost laugh at the way his nose scrunches up when he goes to give the piece a sniff, and you definitely laugh at how fervently he chows down anyway.

“Pretty good for garbage, right?” you ask him as he finishes off what’s left of the emergency-self-defense-sandwich-chunk. He sits down and stares, panting with his tongue peeking out the side of his mouth. “You want more? I’m not that hungry, you can have the rest,” you say, waggling the last forty percent or so back and forth through the air. His ears perk up as you do so, and you lob the rest of it to the side, within arm’s reach. The dog takes his time creeping over again, but doesn’t hesitate to tear right in.

He finishes almost as fast as you would have, and looks back up at you, still expectant. You give a short chuckle and hold your hands in the air. “That was all I had,” you inform, and he sinks. You get a better look at him, now that he’s closer. His fur is matted and filthy, and it seems likely that some of that gray is dirt, not natural color. What catches your attention more is his eyes. They’re wide open and stoically meeting yours, and you see now that one’s a pale, icy blue, and the other is a deep, dull red. They’re both shadowed by dark spots on his fur, giving him one hell of an intense stare.

“You have pretty eyes,” you muse, and he blinks. “I bet you’ve never heard that before. Most people think you’re a freak, don’t they?”

He makes a small, faint whine.

“That’s what I thought.”

You look at him again and notice a stain of dark brownish-red on his chin, stretching up to his lip. You don’t remember the sandwich having any ketchup on it. “Oh hey, what’s that?” you ask, weakly pointing. “Is that _your_ blood? Did you _bite_ somebody, you bad, bad dog?” you sneer over-exaggeratedly.

He whines again, and takes a tiny step back.

“Hey, come on,” you defend, hands in the air again. “I didn’t mean it like that, I promise. I don’t care if you did. I’m a bad human, after all. I bite people all the time. And you know what? They deserve it. And whoever you bit deserved it too.”

He comes closer, and you hold your palm out so he can get your scent (garbage juice and prepubescent B-O. Mmm, refreshing). Hesitantly, he lies down and rests his head on your lap, and it takes a lot of your willpower to restrain yourself from squealing in delight. “Let’s get that chain off,” you say, fumbling for the latch. “It looks terribly uncomfortable.” After a few seconds more of trying, you pop it open and lob it across the alley into the dumpster, where it belongs. It produces a nice _thunk_ sound that makes both of you jump.

“You know…” you start, gently scratching the gap between his bluntly pointed ears. “I’m wondering what made me different. Why you didn’t run up and bite _me_ , I mean. You couldn’t have known that I would have shared. Were you afraid? Was that all that was stopping you?” you pause and laugh. “Or did I just give off that warm and friendly sort of vibe? Ha ha. Doubt it.”

He doesn’t say anything, and— well, obviously. You move on to slow, delicate pets down the back of his neck, brushing your hand against his fur and picking out clumps of dirt where you can find them.

“I was wrong, earlier. You’re not a bad dog. You’re good. But…” you trail off, a catch in your voice, and you don’t know why it’s there. You clear your throat. “But I bet that nobody is ever nice to you, so they don’t see it. Instead, they’re awful to you. They make you hurt them. Then they tell you that it’s your own fault, and that something must be wrong with you, and they ask why you have to be so bad, and they ask what they did to deserve something as stupid and worthless as you, an-and…”

You sniff and scratch at your eyes. “You’re a good dog,” you tell him, and he sinks his weight further into you. “I know you are.”

 

 

 

You go back the next day with a slice of bread stuffed in each pocket. The alley appears as it did yesterday; unwelcoming, cold, and not a place any child should be. Your element. The dumpster is still open, and appears untouched. You climb back up to the top and rummage around for a bit; you find some… _butter_ … (It’s more like greasy yellow rubber. You can _absolutely_ believe that it’s not butter). It looks like it’d go acceptable-ish on your stale bread. You don’t find anything else, and you drop yourself back down to the ground with a disappointed huff. Someday, you’re going to need to come to terms with the fact that you are _never_ going to find a chocolate bar ever again. That was a one-time miracle.

You sit back down in yesterday’s spot and pry a lump of ‘butter’ out of the tub with your finger, mushing it against your bread. It doesn’t spread well, and it smells funny, but you’re not going to let something as luxurious as _buttered freaking bread_ slip by you.

“Awooo,” someone interjects. You turn to your right and see a dog staring you down with intense red and blue eyes.

“Oh, hello there!” you reply brightly, perking up. “I was hoping you would drop by again. I’d been worried that you were some sort of nomad, but you seem to favor this spot right here.”

The dog sneezes.

“Yes, I suppose it does do the job. Well, don’t be a stranger; there’s a feast on! Lo and behold, not just one, but _two_ whole pieces of week-old bread, with weird rubber-butter on it and everything!”

He cocks his head. You smile and try to slide one of the slices over to him. It flips over and lands ‘butter’-side down about half a foot away from you, but he has no problem with trotting over and digging in. You take a bite of yours, and it’s a lot better than you were expecting.

“If you would be a gentleman,” you try to say, holding out your finger and presenting the thick greasy coat of ‘butter’ all over it. You have the last three quarters of the bread in your mouth still, however, so it comes out more like, _‘ff oo wubuh ynnlmun’_. He seems to get the gist of it, and leans over to lick the ‘butter’ off. It tickles, and you giggle. “Thank you kindly,” you say, clearly this time, wiping the slobber off on your pant leg. You catch him eyeing the ‘butter’ tub, but one sniff is enough for him to decide that there are some things in life that simply aren’t worth it.

“I know it wasn’t as luscious as yesterday’s lunch,” you admit, picking crumbs out of his whiskers, slow and delicate so that he doesn’t flinch away, “but I hope you enjoyed it anyways. You _better_ have, because I stole those two slices from home and I’m going to pay for it, later.”

He whines. You laugh softly and give him a reassuring pat on the head.

“Don’t you worry, I can take it. They’re so lazy these days, I think they’re giving up. They don’t have it in them to get creative, anymore. They used to never even let me leave my room, but I think they’ve moved onto wishing that someone will kill me or that I’ll get lost while I’m out roaming around.”

He snuggles himself up next to you, and you grin like an idiot. He’s so _fluffy!_ You scratch behind his ears, and he looks contented. You guess that you probably look contented, too.

“What about you, boy? Do you have an owner, anymore?” you ask. Then, quieter, “…Did you escape?”

“Awooo…” he replies, and you go red, because wow, you actually just asked a dog a question and you were expecting him to answer you with his life’s story and everything.

“Um. Well said.” You take a moment to be glad that dogs don’t typically judge people for being idiots.

 

“I bet you escaped,” you tell him between strokes down his neck. “You’re very brave to do that.”

He huffs.

“I… I have this dream, you know. And— not a sleep dream, because I stopped getting those a long time ago, but an ‘I hope this will happen someday’ dream. Do you want to hear it?”

He looks up at you with what you assume is curiosity.

“One day,” you start and stop, unsure. You’ve thought this over a million times in your head, but you’ve never said it out loud. You were always scared that if you let it outside of you, someone would notice and come to steal it away. You don’t have a lot in this world. This one faded hope is something you wouldn’t be able to handle losing.

You brace yourself and continue. “One day,” you declare, “I’m going to leave this place forever. I don’t know where I’ll go, but it’s going to be far away from here. It’s going to be far away from _them_. When I get there, I’ll be all on my own, and I’ll be safe. Nobody’s going to hurt me anymore, and I’ll provide for myself, and I’ll be happy.” You stop for a moment to savor the taste of the word on your tongue. _Happy_. It’s every bit as fleeting and sweet as chocolate, and it has your heart racing just thinking about it. “I’ll start up a garden to live off of, and I’ll walk through the woods every day, always finding something new. There won’t be any people to bother me, and nobody will tell me what to do, and nobody can hurt me or call me names, because they won’t even know where I am. I don’t know when I’ll do it, or where this new place is, but one day, I’m going to find it. I promise.”

His tongue is hanging out of his mouth again, and his tail is wagging, batting softly against your leg.

“It was going to be just me, but… if you would like, you could come along. I wouldn’t want to get lonely, after all.”

He responds with a howl, leaping to his feet.

“You’d like that?” you ask again, hopeful.

He pounces and licks you upside the forehead, curling your bangs upwards and leaving a damp smear on your face. Smells like rotten sandwiches. Your face scrunches up as you giggle.

“Okay, okay,” you submit, ruffling his fur with both hands. “You can come, too. We’re going to do this together, just you and me.”

 

 

 

 

After a lovely week of visiting, eating garbage with and vigorously petting the dog, you get that itch in your bones. The one that means you need to go see the flowers. You don’t know why you need to go see the flowers, and you don’t know why you itch if you don’t, but if you go too long without their petals brushing the back of your hands, or their scent dragging slowly in and out through your chest, you start to feel sick. Maybe you’re worried that you’ll go back to find that someone went and uprooted every last one, just for you.

“I want to go somewhere else,” you tell him as you run your fingers through his fur, doing your best to untangle it, and he looks at you from his spot curled up in your lap and cocks his head. You’re forced into a smile; you love it when he does that, it’s so cute. “There’s never anything good in the dumpster anymore, the ground is cold, and it smells like a week-old battlefield. I’m sick of this alley,” you finish, nudging him so he’ll move off of you. He stands up alongside you, and when you’re up on both feet and dusting yourself off he cocks his head again in the opposite direction. You keep smiling.

“There’s a place not too far from here that I enjoy visiting,” you explain, voice low. “I think you’d like it, too. Do you want to come with me and see?”

“Awoo—ooo!” he answers, tail whipping back and forth.

You laugh. “I like your enthusiasm! When was the last time someone took you on a _walk_ , huh?”

He huffs morosely. The word _never_ floats through your mind.

“Then today,” you begin, sounding chipper, “is your lucky day. Well, don’t just stare at me, let’s get going!” You start down the alley and onto the sidewalk, and while he hesitates for a moment, looking left and right and letting loose a faint, short whine, he soon sets out after you. You notice, now, that he’s a lot slower than you were expecting. In particular, he’s trying to keep weight off his front right leg. You slow your pace so he can catch up and stay by your side, and you make sure to give him a reassuring scratch behind the ears whenever someone walks by and he bumps up against you. It’s just too bad he can’t do the same for you.

 

  
‘Not too far from here’, in actuality, means ‘two hours of walking’, but by your standards that’s a short, casual stroll. Still, it’s going to be getting dark out, soon, so you pick up the pace a bit. Your canine companion looks unsettled by the change of scenery, but you guess that he trusts you enough to ignore it. He’s unusually loyal, considering the pittance of time you’ve known him for. He must have been yearning for someone he could rely on.

Grids of cracked brick and square-shaped buildings gradually fade away into a sort of ratty rural-suburbia, and you soon find yourself in your own neighborhood. The place you hate the most. Lots of the people here know you by name, but not because you’ve introduced yourself. They eye you carefully as you pass.

As the sun is starting to set, you come to the base of a large, steep hill, rising above the houses none too far away. It’s a jarring but welcome gap in the sprawl of the town; a little slice of nature, of something nice, left untouched because nobody could be bothered to level it down and turn it into another block of identical two-bedroom hellholes. The hill is one of the few good things in your life. It’s fun to lie on your back and roll down it during the summer. In the winter, if you get enough speed, you can use the whole thing like a big slide. The grass is soft and pleasant to sit on. It is, ultimately, _your_ hill. None of the other kids that used to yank your hair and push you to the dirt back when you still went to school come here, because they know it’s where that _thing_ enjoys biding its time.

What you love about it most of all, however, is the thick blanket of golden flowers coating every acre. It’s quite the display, and it adds far more brilliance and life to the area than it deserves.

You don’t rush up to the top the way you usually do. Instead, you take your time, not wishing to leave your guest behind. “Well, here we are,” you say fondly once you clear the slope, stopping to take in the wonderful fragrance in the air. “My favorite spot. What do you think?”

He looks up at you, tail wagging, and gives a short bark. He looks like he wants to run and jump and bound all over, if only it weren’t for his bad leg. Or maybe he doesn’t want to leave you behind?

(But now you’re getting ahead of yourself. There’s just no modesty in you, is there?)

“It’s amazing, isn’t it? I come here whenever I’m not in the mood to walk anywhere, or if I’m… not okay. It always cheers me up.”

He twirls around in a neat little circle and barks again. You sit down between the flowers with a soft laugh and pat your hands on your lap, beckoning him forth. “Yeah, you like it. I knew you would,” you claim, smugly confident as he curls up against your side. You watch impatiently as the sun dips down below the horizon, finally letting all the other stars shine through the night sky.

 

“You know,” you say, falling onto your back and sinking slightly into the soft, cool earth. “When we do find that place, I really hope it has flowers like these.”

You hear him shift, and you feel his tail start to beat against your leg again.

“What, did you think I had forgotten? I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. One day,” you begin, falling into a calm, faint tone. “One day we’re going to leave this place forever. I don’t know where we’ll go, but it’ll be far, far away from here. So far that even if we wanted to, we couldn’t come back. And when we get there, we’re going to be happy. We’ll grow all our food in a big garden, and we’ll have as much as we want, and it’ll never be rotten. I’ll take you on a walk through the woods every day, and we’ll always find something new. There won’t be anyone to bother us, and nobody will tell us what to do, and nobody can hurt us or call us names, because they won’t know where we are. I don’t know where this place is, and I’m not sure when we’ll do it, but one day, we’re going to find it. I pr- _PBPLBPPT!”_ Your monologue is interrupted by a big sloppy kiss across your face, and you spit and recoil in surprise. He got you right on the mouth.

“You _ass!_ ” you shout between roaring fits of laughter as he continues to slather you with affection, “I wasn’t finished yet!” Out of desperation, you turn your head away and shove your face into the grass, but he doesn’t relent. Your hair is all curled in different directions, and your face is coated in slobber, and his breath smells like garbage (totally your fault), and it’s gross. It’s so gross. It’s so gross that you laugh and laugh and cry and cry and you sit up and wrap your arms tight around your dog’s neck and hold him as close as you can.

“…You're my best friend,” you whisper, feeling anxious. You’ve never had to say that before.

He doesn’t say anything. He’s a dog of few words, after all. Instead, he nuzzles his nose into your shoulder and leans his weight against you. Somehow, you think the feeling is mutual.

 

You run out of steam and slide off him, falling back down to the grass with a hushed _thwumph_. The stars are out in full now, and you can see streetlights flickering on in the distance from the corners of your eyes. “I suppose the right thing to do would be to walk you home,” you mumble.

He sprawls himself across your stomach with a tired huff.

“But, if you want to sleep over, that’s fine by me.”

You lie still and gaze up into infinity, your best friend already peacefully asleep. There has to be somewhere out there. There has to be. You don’t have the rocket ship to get there, but you’re more than willing to _jump_ if you need to. You know there’s somewhere for you. For him. You just have to find it.

You feel something strange burning white-hot in your chest as you fall asleep. You don’t want to jinx it, but you think it may be hope.

 

 

 

You keep getting lucky, and you don’t know where your sudden burst of good fortune came from, but it’s honestly starting to creep you out. You managed to find an intact tennis ball while walking to your bestie’s favorite alley (you really don’t know what he sees in it. Then again, you also don’t know what he sees in _you_ , so you shouldn’t judge). He lights up like a fireworks display when you show it to him.

He still isn’t the fastest, and he still can’t put too much weight on his bad leg, but he makes a spirited power-walk for the ball every time you throw it, and he always brings it back and drops it in your lap. You’re willing to bet that he’s enjoying himself. Which is good, because you’re having a blast, and you’d hate it if you had to stop.

“Are you even a little bit tired, yet?” you tease when he comes back to return the ball yet again, looking as spry as ever even after a full hour of play. He seems a lot better off you are; your arm is starting to get sore.

“Bark!” he answers.

You give an airy laugh. “Of course you aren’t. You’re going to have me doing this all day, aren’t you? Is that it? Am I merely your slave now? No more than some squishy pitching machine?” you fret melodramatically.

He crams his face firmly into the hand you’re holding the ball with and barks again.

“Wow, I was only joking, I didn’t think it was _true_.” You bow your head. “Yes master,” you say obediently, “I will throw his magnificence his ball. Please forgive me for my earlier insubordination, master.”

“Awoo—oooo!” he says, playfully bopping you right between the eyes with his nose. You toss the ball down the alley and he trots off after it, leaving you alone to laugh and shake your head. You watch as it rolls into an old torn-up boot lying tipped over on the ground, and he swiftly gets his nose stuck inside. He starts whipping his head back and forth to try and shake it off, but it doesn’t work, but he keeps _trying_ and just— damnit. He’s too perfect for this world.

He finally frees himself from the evil clutches of the lone rubber boot and prances back, ball in his mouth. He looks so proud and unconquerable as he does so that all you can manage is “congratulations” when he makes it back, tail wagging and head held high.

You glance between him, the ball, and your lap, and you frown. The pieces are all in the wrong places. The ball is still in his mouth. He’s standing and staring you down with his head tilted off to the side, not sitting braced to power-walk off down the alley. And your lap is empty, which is most certainly wrong, because if he wanted to stop playing he’d be curled up in it like he usually is.

You narrow your eyes. “ _Really?_ ” you ask, incredulous. “You’re going to make me _work_ for it? You’re not even going to hand it over any more, I have to _take_ it from you?”

He says nothing. His tail wags slightly faster.

“Jerk,” you mumble as you shoot your hand out and grip the ball with your thumb and index finger. It’s super slimy, but that’s nothing you aren’t used to. He makes a valiant effort, holding on tight and pulling his head back away from you, and even growling as menacingly as he can bring himself to. But he lost the instant he stepped onto the battlefield; you’re quick, and you’re a dirty fighter. You drag him towards you and dart your other hand out to tickle between his toes— as cute as they are, you’re positive that paw pads are absolutely an evolutionary weakness that must have gotten hundreds of thousands of his kind killed over the years –and he folds his leg up against his chest in desperation. You do the same to his other foot, and he’s left dangling in the air and looking like some weird fuzzy dolphin, held up only by your shared grip on the ball. Finally, you move in for the kill. You barely manage to lift your arm up, bringing him with it and exposing his neck. He foolishly makes no move to defend himself, and you use your other arm to savagely attack the sensitive spot under his chin, tickling the absolute hell out of it and forcing him to let go and flop ungracefully into your lap. You hold the slobbery ball high in the air in triumph, and give him a condescending scratch between the ears as a consolation prize.

“Wrecked,” you declare, insufferably full of yourself. He looks up at you, panting with his tongue hanging sideways out his mouth.

“Awooo!” he boasts, and you raise an eyebrow.

“I have defeated you,” you patiently remind him as he tries to climb up over you and steal the ball back. “You don’t _keep fighting_ after you lose!”

“Bark!” he continues in stubborn defiance as he plants both paws on your shoulders and tries to use you as a springboard. He gets pretty good air, but you manage to keep your prize just barely out of his reach. You laugh.

“Alright, in all fairness, I guess we keep fighting after we lose. We’re just stupid like that, aren’t w— _PFFTP-BBPLT!_ ” He got you right on the mouth again, and you drop the ball, spitting and stammering out of control. “ _GROSS!_ Did you seriously get me with the same trick _twice!?_ ”

He gives you another short bark, but it’s muffled by the ball clutched in his jaw.

“God, it somehow tastes _worse_ than the garbage we usually eat. You’re disgusting, you know that?” you cross your arms and sneer, but he looks just as cheery as ever. He must want round two.

Fine. He wants to play dirty? You can play dirty. Or rather, you can play dirt _ier_. You turn your head to the side and stare down the street, doing your best to appear as though you’re concentrating intensely. Out of your peripherals, you catch him glancing back and forth between you and where you’re looking. Finally, he gives in, and ends up staring at the same nothing you are. Now’s your chance.

You take a swipe at his mouth, trying to get a hold of the ball as quickly as you can to take him by surprise, but you misjudge. Your hand connects to the side of his nose, and he yelps. “Oh!” you peep, mortified. You reach out to him.

Before you can react, he snarls and sinks his teeth into your hand. You can feel the skin break.

As soon as he hears you shriek, he lets go and retreats with record speed further down the alley. He stops about ten feet away, facing towards you and whimpering with his head ducked down.

He didn’t do too much damage, thankfully; you’re bleeding everywhere, and it stings like hell, but it’s all skin-deep. You’ve had much worse. You look up at him, and he bows his head down even further, refusing to meet your eyes.

“Come here,” you order. He whines.

“I said come here,” you repeat, patting your lap.

Slowly, so slowly, he creeps over to you, head still bowed. He seems to be afraid. You raise your good hand, and he flinches. You place it on the back of his neck as delicately you’d add to a rickety house of cards, and run your fingers through his fur.

“I’m not mad. I’m not going to hurt you,” you hum to him, and he sums up the courage to make eye contact. You tilt your head to get a better look at his nose; he’s alright, thank goodness.

You glance over at the ball, now next to the dumpster across the alley from you. No more playtime for today, you think.

 

“I just remembered. I was going to tell you something important, but I got sidetracked,” you say, still quiet. “It’s about our dream.”

He comes back to life; he looks up at you with both eyes wide open. His tail is wagging again. You smirk. “You just love it when I talk about it, don’t you? I understand. I love talking about it, too.”

You take a deep breath. “I found a safe place not too far from my house, a week ago. I’ve been stealing and stashing food and clothes and stuff there. I…” you hesitate, afraid to admit that things are finally working out. “I think there’s enough that we can leave tomorrow.”

“Bark! Bark, bark!” he says.

“Yeah,” you laugh, “I’m excited, too. And scared. I don’t… I don’t think I really believe it will work. I can’t believe that something won’t go wrong, or that there really is somewhere for us to go, or that we even deserve it. But, I promised. And I’m going to try.

“We have to leave tomorrow. They’re on to me. They know I’ve been stealing, and things… have been really bad. I’m going to sneak out as soon as I can next morning, and I’m going to come here and get you, and then we’re gone.”

He curls up against you, and you pet him down the back of his neck in the way he likes.

“Tomorrow,” you begin, and you can feel your heart doing loop-de-loops. You’re so close. “Tomorrow, we’re going to leave this place forever. I don’t know where we’ll go, but it’s going to be far away from here. We’ll grow all our food in a big garden. I’ll take you on a walk every day through the woods, and we’ll always find something new. Nobody is ever going to bother us, or hurt us, or call us names ever again, because they won’t even know where we are. I don’t have a clue where this place is. Maybe we’ll have to walk for a long, long time to find it. But we’re going to try. Tomorrow, we’re going to go find somewhere we can be happy. I promise.”

Just one more day. It’ll be rough, you fully understand that. They’re going to be mad tonight; you’ll have to be strong.

But you know you can take it. You know you can. You’ve been doing this for years, now. You only have to take it for one more night, and then you’ll leave. You’re going to be free.

 

 

 

You climb out a window as soon as you catch a glimpse of the sun and set out on your way. You thought about leaving a note behind, but decided against it. They’re going to be too happy you’re gone to care about the kinds of people they are. You turn and take one last look at your house. You imagine it engulfed by hellfire, billowing smoke and cinders into the cool morning air.

You look towards your hill. You rarely notice, but it lines right up with the mountain a couple miles away, giving a breathtaking sense of scale. Mount Ebott, it’s called. Travellers who go there are said to never return.

(You’ve been told to climb up it a few times, yourself.)

You nod your head; sounds like an excellent place to start. Once you get your dog, you’ll turn around, swing by to collect your stash, and head out for the mountain. Easy.

There’s a hurricane of emotions swirling around inside you. Excitement. Anxiety. Fear. Joy. Processing it all is tricky, to say the least. You aren’t used to any of this. You aren’t used to seeing the city this early in the morning. You aren’t used to walking with your head held high, every step taken with purpose. And you aren’t used to that white-hot feeling burning a hole through your heart. Hope, you keep calling it. It should feel amazing, but you’re still stuck being afraid of it.

 

It doesn’t take as long as usual to get to that disgusting part of town; you’re moving as fast as you can without breaking into a sprint. Still smells like death and decay, even worse than usual. You wonder where that body is.

You catch sight of the alley, still a block or two away, and you get a horrible, indescribable feeling. You look behind you, and there is no one. Strange. You guess that you’re more anxious about running away than you thought. You shouldn’t be— anything you’re going to find out there is nothing compared to what you already know. Despite your reassurance, the feeling only worsens as you get closer, until it hurts like a fist of stone wedged through your gut. Finally, you make it to the alley. You round the corner, and lying on his side, is your dog.

There’s no delay. You immediately spot the hilt of a knife jutting out of his chest.

You creep silently over to him with a still heart and breathless lungs. Your mind is blank as you kneel down beside him and rest your hand on his neck. You hear a faint, raspy whine, and his red eye swings up to look at you. You can feel that he’s still breathing, just barely. He’s not gone yet.

There’s a fresh stain of crimson on his lips. It’s not his.

“Idiot,” you whisper, fists clenched, voice frail. “Stupid, worthless idiot.”

You try to slide your arms under him and pick him up, but you stop when he whimpers. You know that he’s in too much pain to move. You know that you can’t carry him, anyways. And you know, better than anything else, that there is nobody who would fix him for you.

So instead, you pet him gently down the back of his neck in the way he likes, running your fingers through his fur. “Today,” you start, voice hushed and shaky. “Today, we’re going to leave this place forever. I don’t know where we’re going to go, but it… it’ll be so far away from here, we’ll never even hear of this town again. An… And, we’ll grow all our food in a huge garden, and we’ll have so much that we don’t know what to do with it all. And I’ll take you on a walk, every day through the woods, and we’ll always find something new. And nobody is going to bother us, or call us names, or… or…” you shiver. “Nobody’s going to hurt us ever again. They won’t find us. And it’ll… it’ll be just y-you and me. Just us, and we’ll… we’ll be…” you choke. _Happy. We’ll be happy. I promise._

You feel something hit the side of your leg, and when you look, you see that his tail is dragging back and forth across the pavement.

It starts quietly enough that you don’t notice it at first. Little by little, a coarse, hideous laughter is spilling out of you. It’s hot and sour like vomit.

“Should have known,” you manage to waver out between howls. “Nothing is this easy. Should have known.” You were too caught up in pretending, you let yourself forget. You’re not supposed to be happy. That’s not how this works, and even if it was, you wouldn’t deserve it. So here’s your reminder, breathing out his last in a dirty alleyway, a million miles away from a home that you should have known was never there.

It’s funny, in a way. You keep laughing, for so long and so hard that not even you can pretend it’s really laughing anymore. When you aren’t looking, he rests his head on the pavement and closes his eyes.

 

Eventually, you have nothing left in you to let out, and you pluck the knife from his chest without thinking. Stainless steel. Both edges sharpened. It looks worn-down. You slide it into your pocket and stand up.

You walk all the way back past your house and your hill, forgetting to even touch your stash.

You walk, and you keep walking, until you can’t feel your legs, and the sun is almost down past the horizon again. The city fades away into the mountain’s woodlands, and a million things you’ve never seen before pass you by as you pay them no notice. You’re climbing the mountain, now. You don’t know why, or what’s up there. It doesn’t really matter.

Maybe, one day, you’ll find somewhere for you. Maybe you’ll find somewhere with a big garden, and new things to see, and nobody to hurt you. Maybe you’ll find somewhere you can be happy. But you understand, now, that you can’t stay there. That you don’t belong there.

One day, you are going to have to come back.

 

 

…

 

 

You feel a fluffy paw nudge your shoulder, and you turn your head around to see what it was. “Are you sure you know where we’re going?” your brother asks, face and voice both deeply concerned.

_Hell no,_ you think.

“Of course I do,” you say.

You hear Frisk scoff somewhere behind you. “Then why are we still lost?” they ask, as softly as always.

You smile a smile that nobody sees and counter with, “Azzy, where is your phone?”

“I forgot it at home,” he mumbles.

“Frisk, where is your phone?”

“Dead,” they mumble.

“Chara, where is your phone?” you brightly ask yourself. “Oh, wait, it’s dead too? Because someone wanted to play video games while we waited for the concert to start? How unfortunate.”

“Don’t pick on Frisk,” Asriel snaps.

“Frisk can get off my case if they don’t want to be picked on. It’s not my fault this place has changed so damn much since… what, a billion years ago? How long were we dead for?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t really brought it up.”

“Remind me to ask Mom when we get back.”

“ _If,_ ” Frisk corrects, and you turn around to blow raspberries at them.

“Still, worst comes to worst,” you say with a shrug, “we could just… live in a dumpster or something, I don’t know. If we’re gone too long, you know full well there will be at least several dozen search and rescue parties out for us.”

“In a dumpster?” Frisk asks, not sold on your backup plan.

“Why not? Dumpsters are pretty cozy, you know. If you’re lucky, sometimes they have a moldy sandwich in them to eat, too.”

“Yuck,” Asriel offers.

“There’s an open one in that alley,” Frisk jokes, pointing to your right. “We could settle down if you want.”

You turn to look, and—

Oh.

You stop dead in your tracks, and Frisk nearly bumps into you. “Something wrong?” they ask, pensively.

You keep staring. You bite back a chuckle when you realize that you know exactly where you are, now.

“Chara,” they persist, gentling rocking your shoulder, “Are you okay?”

“I… I think they need a moment alone, Frisk,” you hear him whisper, placing his hand on their shoulder and leading them further down the street, away from you.

 

“…I found it,” you tell nobody with a forlorn ghost of a smile. “I told you I would.”

You blink something out of your eyes and catch up to your siblings. “Come on,” you tell them, “It’s this way. Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, the dog dies. That's the twist. That's how far I've sunk. There's no excuse for this.
> 
> Next time will be something happy, I promise.


End file.
